To view previousPOSTCARDS FROM
MY SQUARE MILE
click... SmileUpdated: 11/08/2013
ALSO...
for a taste of life on the wild side of my square mile, click...
400 Smiles A Day
Updated: 08/06/2013

Design:
Yosida

♫♫♫TO SELFIt seems that
the artist Leonardo da Vinci kept a notebook, Notes to Self,
a list of “things to do today”: buy paper; charcoal; chalk ...
describe tongue of woodpecker and jaw of crocodile...
These are my Notes to Self, a daily record of
the things that make me smile and which brighten up my day no
end, whether read in a newspaper, seen on TV, heard on the
radio, told in the pub, spotted in the supermarket, a good joke,
a great story, a funny cartoon, a film clip, an eye-catching
picture, a memorable song, something startling that nevertheless generates a spontaneous smile, curiosities spotted
along my walks through the Towy Valley...
This is a snapshot of life beyond the blue horizon... ...and
everyday a doolally smile of the day
PS:
The shortest distance between two people is a smile ...
Contact Me

Halloween 2014

“The European Union is like a thirsty vampire feeding on UK
taxpayers’ blood.”Nigel Farage, leader of the United Kingdom
Independence Party, on the EU’s supposedly unexpected 30-day demand for an
extra £1.7bn from Britain.

Oh, and do pay up pronto, Cameron old boy!

This
way to the Revolution

So, what are my stand-and-stare thoughts on this
year’s EU pantomime which, like the Christmas season, keeps arriving
earlier and earlier with every passing year?

Well, we live on a desperately overcrowded
island, its whole infrastructure creaking as it struggles to cope ―
yet suddenly it has to promptly pay an additional £1.7bn to the EU
(trick) while at
the same time being told to invite even more people onto its alarmingly
listing little ship (treat).

The country is full and it is bankrupt with
debt amounting to some 1.5 trillion, which the nation’s children and
grandchildren will have to repay.

How ironic is that? Folk are desperate to
pass on their wealth to the children, free of tax of course ― see the
late Tony Benn’s just surfaced financial affairs and how his children
avoid paying inheritance tax on his £5 million legacy (you have to
laugh) ― just so the
kids can then pay off the huge debts that their parents’ generation incurred.

Doolallyness alive and
well and thriving all over the shop.

While history does not precisely repeat
itself, the events that shape history certainly do. And with every
passing day I sense revolution in the air. And Mrs Thatcher’s poll tax
riots will seem like afternoon tea with the vicar.

“Can the customs
officers who decided that Becky the Senegal parrot did not have the
correct paperwork to enter Britain be put in charge of immigration?”Ilona Hopkins of Margate, Kent in a letter to The Daily Telegraph.

“Has
Britain lost its sense of humanity towards migrants? Perhaps we have.
Perhaps that’s what happens to people when their hospitality and
generosity is so abused?”Ziggy Starburst in a
generously-commended
online comment about uncontrolled immigration.

Trick or treat

Well, Halloween is here, and as
featured in a Telegraph article, so are the memorably tasteless costumes
that go with the territory (and guaranteed to offend countless
people).

It was a roundup of the usual
suspects ― but one costume was particularly eye-catching:

Sexy Muslim girl outfit

You may have thought there was
nothing more offensive than ‘blacking up’, but you’d be wrong.

You can now buy a “sexy burka Middle
Eastern Arab girl costume” at aliexpress.com...

Paradoxically, the above little number drew loads of positive and
admiring online responses, not just from the
men but many of the female correspondents too, who quite fancied wearing
it for a laugh.

I particularly like
the silver pieces of four (play) hanging all over the shop, ho ho.

Crumbs!

Yesterday I mentioned the dastardly
tricks deployed by householders to ambush unsuspecting young trick or treaters.
Also, above I mention in passing that, in a future
EU-dominated world, Mrs Thatcher’s poll tax riots will seem like
afternoon tea with the vicar.

Well now, on the wireless this morning,
adults old enough to know better,
were playing Trick-or-Treat Roulette.

Six cupcakes had been specially baked
― but
one had been liberally laced with chili powder.

Everybody knew the score but
nobody knew which cake contained the bullet. Obviously.

And if you chose that one ... well,
you had to eat it in front of everyone.

Actually, I rather like that as a
proper trick or treat for grown-ups. “More tea, vicar? And do help yourself
to an exceedingly nice cupcake.”

At last, the down-to-earth and likeable pop star Sting has given the
public more information about the “tantric sex” sessions he enjoys with
his wife, Trudie Styler.

We have all been on tenterhooks
these past 24 years since he first revealed the marathon seven-hour
lovemaking rituals. Sting explained that the seven hours actually
include taking in a movie and having dinner.

Aha. I wish I’d known that standing
in the queue at the Topkapi kebab house at two in the morning
constituted tantric sex; I’d have felt so much better about myself.

Sting described tantric sex as “a
spiritual act”. He added: “I don’t know any purer and better way of
expressing a love for another individual.”

Has he never heard of Ferrero
Rocher? Different strokes, I suppose.

Gosh, imagine that ... and all those years I thought I was enduring
“tantalus sex” (tantalus: a case in which bottles may be locked with
their contents tantalizingly visible); or perhaps, more correctly,
“tantara sex” (tantara: a fanfare or blast, as when feeling horny, as on
a horn or trumpet).

But there I was, taking her out for
a drink, a meal, to the pictures, to a rugby game ― and I was
experiencing
tantric sex all along. D’oh!
Double D’oh!!

You’re spoiling us, Mr
Ambassador

On the wireless this morning folk
were discussing tomorrow’s dastardly trick or treat to-do ― and
apparently a favourite trick is to buy a box of Ferrero Rocher,
carefully unwrap and remove the chocolates ... and then replace them
with something else.

Top of the list appeared to be this...

First catch your sprout ...
then cook it, dip it in chocolate and carefully replace it in the
Ferrero wrapper.

What a delightfully rotten ruse.

Other tricks mentioned were:

Substitute
the cream filling in a chocolate biscuit with toothpaste.

Take a
couple of cupcakes,
but instead of icing, swirl mustard.

Or a doughnut
filled with mayonnaise.

And ― gulp!
― toffee onions.

I’d hate to play any of those tricks ― except, perhaps, the Ferrero
Rocher, which would probably go down well, even with most children.

But think of the revenge of the
kids...

An ambush to be avoided at all costs. Best disappear down
the Crazy Horsepower for a few hours.

PS: This smashing clickbait
headline just spotted:

‘Paul Daniels has
tetanus jab after bite from stage rabbit’

Oh dear, Sting has tantric sex, Paul has tetanus sex.

Spell-cheque corner: A
particularly good day today. My exceedingly clever computer suggested
that ‘tantric’ should be ‘tantrum’. Hm, tantrum sex, rings a bell. ‘Ferrero’ came up as ‘Ferrari’ ―
and ‘Rocher’ as ‘Richer’. How about that? For Ferrero Rocher read
Ferrari Richer (articulate accordingly, of course).

Look
left ... right
- quick, in you go
Spotted in Peru by Adrian Oates

For the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand
Spotted in Brisbane by Charles Henshaw

The
above is perfect foreplay stimulus apropos this story from a few days
back...

Woman’s shock at finding CONDOM in a pack of cornflakes she bought from
Tesco

A supermarket has been forced to
apologise after a little boy opened a box of cornflakes ― and found a
condom inside.

Tesco has launched a probe after
the child tucked into his cereal ― bought from a store in
Barnstaple, Devon ― only to find the unopened contraceptive swimming in
his bowl.

His uncle’s fiancée, who asked
not to be named, managed to snatch the condom packet away before he
could examine it ― but says she was soon bombarded with awkward
questions.

The woman claims it came from
inside the packet of own-brand Tesco cornflakes.

Hm. Trick or treat? Whatever, these online comments added to the joy of the moment...

Toots: I think it
may be a marketing ploy. Who remembers the little plastic toys we used
to look forward to in our cornflakes in the 60s/70s? Well now, the whole
thing has just gone 21st century.
Other boxes may include the morning-after pill, small
bottles of WKD vodka and solicitors’ helpline numbers.

Keith Lewis: The condom should prevent it happening again.

The Captain: Was it a corntraceptive?

As Tesco is learning to its cost, it never rains but it pours, and all
over its cornflakes.

“Tesco sales are down ... every Lidl helps.”A letter in the Daily Mail from Tim Hall of Kirkby Lonsdale, Cumbria.

Tuesday, October 28th

Probably the wurst code word in the world

REMEMBER the above headline? A week
ago I featured the tale of the commander of a Portuguese garrison in Goa who
had urgently requested Lisbon to send a supply of artillery shells or
anti-tank grenades (the stories vary), using the prearranged code word
of chouriços, or sausages.

The Ministry of Defence in Lisbon,
which had long forgotten the code word, duly despatched a large
consignment of spicy sausages to Goa by plane.

Well, another cracker...

Blades on the ground

SIR – During the Second World War,
the RAF in the Middle East sent a message to London requesting 600
airscrews. The message was misread as aircrews and 600 airmen were sent
out round the Cape.
A later signal read: “For airscrews read propellers”.
Adrian Holloway, Minchinhampton, Gloucestershire

I would like to think that that is
a true story.

The word “airscrews” reminds me of
the famously infamous advertising slogan “I’m Mandy, Fly Me”, and I’m
pretty sure there’s a wonderfully dated mile-high joke in there
somewhere ― but I can’t for the life of me think what it is.

Whatever, another brace of letters spotted in the Telegraph:

Alone in a crowd

SIR – My daughter was recently
waiting for a lift to school, and when it failed to materialise she
walked, arriving five minutes late. The school has a new rule which
states that any pupils who are late will have to spend lunchtime in
“isolation”.
On being asked how it was, she replied: “It was
packed.” Stephen Blanchard, London SE26

Apt punishment?

SIR – Reading about the packed
“isolation” room reminded me of a comparably ironic policy implemented
by Strathclyde’s education department when I worked for it in the
Seventies: persistent truancy was punished by exclusion from school. Robin Dow, Stocksbridge, West Yorkshire

Yes, the nation’s descent into absolute doolallyness has an impressive
track record.

And finally, another every day a
day at school spot, compliments of The Times letters page:

Air in eggs

Sir, Fresh eggs lie horizontally at
the bottom of a vessel of cold water because they contain only a small
amount of air. As they age, more air enters through the shell.
Eggs that are not completely fresh ― but still fine to
eat ― will tilt upwards. If the egg floats, then it has gone bad.Kay Bagon, Radlett, Herts

I remember my mother on the farm doing that
test, especially if she had
come across some eggs that had been laid away from the chicken shed, say
in a nearby hedge.

Incidentally, looking at the name
of the above letter writer, Kay Bagon, she nearly has the perfect
surname apropos a letter about eggs.

Monday, October 27th

♬♪♫
...
Happy ghost-busting birthday to you...

TODAY is the 100th anniversary of the birth of Dylan Thomas.

Truth be told I have grown somewhat
weary of tales of the man himself, what with his brief and troubled walk through
time.

No less a figure
than the novelist and Booker Prize winner Kingsley Amis once dismissed
Dylan Thomas as an “outstandingly
unpleasant man”.
Mind you, the words pot, kettle and black float effortlessly above that
quote.

Also, the London media has been
overly obsessed with whether Thomas hated the Welsh language itself
(rather conveniently ignoring the fact that two of his children have
wholly Welsh names); oh, and how precisely should one pronounce the name Dylan ―
Dill-an or
Dull-an ― yawn!

All that really matters is his
written and verbal legacy. Which, let’s be honest, is rather good.

So I thought I would celebrate the
day with just a couple of my favourite Thomas quotes.

Singy-songy words

The first is a reported slice of badinage. On one of his trips to
America he was asked by a reporter the purpose of the visit, and he
supposedly responded thus: “The sole purpose of my visit is to seek out
beautiful women wearing nothing but diaphanous mackintoshes.”

What a perfect image. And as if
by magic...

Beth Marsden’s
‘Transparent Mac’

A couple of months back at the
local supermarket, I was next in turn for the kiosk. In front of me an
attractive lady, 30-ish, wearing a poncho-style diaphanous mac, the sort
used to protect against a rogue shower.

As she departed I approached the
familiar young girl at the checkout, who, with a serious face and frosty
tone asked: “What are you smiling at?” She then smiled broadly.

“If I told you, you wouldn’t
believe me,” I said.

“Try me,” she said ― so with nobody
waiting behind I joined up all the dots that had led to my smile.

Having encountered this young lady at the checkout on previous occasions
I had quickly established that she was clearly not the default kind of
person you would expect to find manning (womanning?) a checkout at a
supermarket ― but in casual conversation I’d learnt that she was earning
some spare cash between leaving school and going off to college.

She was a well-spoken, chatty,
cheery sort, and even though I was old enough to be her grandfather she
was the type you could effortlessly have a jokey conversation with ―
even exchange a bit of risqué banter ― without causing any sort of
confusion or offence.

Indeed, she could give as good as
she got, witness her opening remark as to why I had a silly grin on my
face.

When I’d finished the “diaphanous mackintoshes” tale she surprised me by
responding ― in an exaggerated Welsh accent: “I’m fast. I’m a bad lot. God will strike me dead. I’m
eighteen. I’ll go to hell. You just wait ― she tells the old goat in
front of her ― I’ll sin till I blow up!”

She was quoting Mae Rose Cottage from Under Milk Wood, seventeen
and never been kissed, who dreams of meeting her “Mr. Right”, and who spends
the day in the fields talking to the nanny goats and daydreaming, and
unseen, draws lipstick circles around her nipples.

SECOND VOICE:
She lies deep, waiting for the worst to happen; the goats champ and
sneer...

I actually miss seeing the young girl in the supermarket.
Whenever I saw her about the store she would always give me a cheeky
smile.

Sadly I never asked her is she was off to college to
study drama because she seemed born to be an actress, the perfect Mae
Rose Cottage.

I bet she goes far, whatever her chosen subject.

As it happens, my second Dylan
Thomas quote comes from Under
Milk Wood: “He kissed her once when she wasn’t looking ... but he never
kissed her again even though she was looking all the time.”

As I understand it, the BBC
commissioned Under Milk Wood as a radio play, with presumably the
proviso of no bad language, and that it had to be understood and
appreciated by your typically average Welsh listener i.e. me (bearing in
mind that most of Dylan’s poetry goes straight over my head).

What is fascinating about that last
quote is this: if within the privacy of your own imagination you
substitute the word “kiss” with the f-word...

I bet that many a lady
reading it thus, will duly wear a wry smile as she remembers the time when she
had, perhaps, enjoyed a few drinks too many ― but not necessarily drunk ― and
wondered why the fellow who had had his way with her paid very little
attention to her thereafter.

Indeed, I fear I may well have to
plead guilty in the court of ‘Nogood Boyo Bad Behaviour’.

And on that note, I think I shall
leave you with the following magical and lyrical use of words by Dylan
Thomas...

Captain Cat (thinking of Rosie Probert):

I’ll tell you no lies.
The only sea I saw
Was the seesaw sea,
With you riding on it.
Lie down, lie easy.
Let me shipwreck in your thighs.

Now that’s what I call singy-songy
words.

Man overboard!

Saturday/Sunday, October 25th/26th

Memories are made of this
Chuck Ricker

AS
I again disappear down that crazy river for a couple of days, and
prompted by the above picture-trip to my memory vault, I was amused last
night by a list of the worst chat-up lines ever.

And yes, they were delightfully
cringeworthy.

Mind you, given that the clocks
change this weekend, I thought this worthy of a marginal paraphrase:

“I’m wearing a magic watch. It tells me you’re not wearing any
underwear ― no, hang on, I must have forgotten to turn it back an hour
this morning.”

I like that, I could
imagine using it in my roll-in-the-hay day. However, I thoroughly
enjoyed this online comment...

Gompei: The
best chat-up line I was ever at the receiving end of wasn’t
even a chat-up line at all. I was
sitting opposite a girl at a party and she just patted the empty seat
next to her while looking at me.
We dated for 6 years and almost got married. Although
the relationship didn’t end in the way I expected, I still remember that
pat with a smile.

As you’d expect, that drew
loads and loads of ‘recommends’.

I am reminded of the famous quote
from Alice Roosevelt Longworth (1884-1980):

“If you can’t
say something good about someone, sit right here by me.”

I also like this one of hers:

“I have a simple
philosophy. Fill what’s empty. Empty what’s full. And scratch where it
itches.”

See you Monday, if spared.

Friday, October 24th

The flamed and feathered blooms of old England
Glories of the Wakefield and North of England Tulip Society

Displayed traditionally in beer bottles, the society’s
tulips await judging at its annual show

THE above eye-catching picture in
the Telegraph, together with the following letter and attendant
online comments of relevance and choice, captured my imagination no end ― and
deserve a smile of the day spot and to be shared with as many people as
possible...

SIR – I enjoyed the
Gardening article by Charles Quest-Ritson on the Dutch garden of
historic bulbs, the Hortus Bulborum. The collection of English Florists’
Tulips there, with their flamed and feathered marking, were supplied by
the Wakefield and North of England Tulip Society.
This society has been growing English Florists’ Tulips
since 1836. Some of the varieties grown have very long lives, and flower
year after year for decades. Unlike most viruses, those that affect
the tulip (and produce its markings) do not appear to mutate.
The blooms today are just as illustrated hundreds of
years ago. Tim Lever, Beachampton, Buckinghamshire

Anneallan: What a wonderfully quirky picture. They would make
striking centrepieces for tables at mass catering events.

Johnny Norfolk: Is that the best they can do? Old brown beer
bottles to display them?

Astrantia: The beer bottle was the container easiest to hand
which holds a tulip flower upright. Don’t forget that these societies,
like the Auricula Society, was the hobby of the working man.

JDavidJ: It may be a cheap and easy way to make sure everyone
uses the same container. Differing vases could distract the judges from
the focus of their attention.
In a couple of years they may have to use empty pill
bottles instead.

Those comments add so much to the photograph and the way different
individuals perceive things differently. It’s
the old beer bottle half-full half-empty character trait.

As I always maintain, smiles come
in all shapes and sizes. For example, another recent Telegraph
letter:

Today’s news

SIR – Radio Four’s Today
programme yesterday interviewed a woman who claimed to have married
herself. I couldn’t help recalling the words of a former Today
presenter, the late Robert Robinson: “If this is news, on what basis do
we ever leave anything out?” Michael Stanford, London SE23

Thursday, October 23rd

Sex and the Valley Boy

Tom & Jerry Kirsty

“HE pulsates sexuality. I can only imagine he is a
killer in the sack.”Broadcaster Kirsty Young, 45, presenter of
Desert Island Discs, 72, says she could happily have cast away with Sir
Tom Jones, now 74.

“I am grateful,”
continues Kirsty, with legs firmly crossed,“that I was
interviewing him in the autumn of his years, because God only knows, if
he had walked into my studio 30 years ago, I would not have been
responsible for my actions.”

Given that 30 years ago
Kirsty would have been ― now let us see ... just sweet 15? ― she may well have got excited at
the sight of Jimmy Savile, God forbid, such is the nature of celebrity
attraction of those on the totem pole.

And the higher up the totem pole
the sleb, the less those staring in awe are capable of spotting the
ambush.

Whatever, back with Sir Tom: being
that he has allegedly entertained more women than I’ve encountered hot
dinners, I am somewhat taken aback that our red tops ― and indeed our
very blue tops ― are not pulsating with ladies marking the great man out
of ten.

Could it possibly be ― and I may be
indulging in some sort of treason here and be dragged kicking and
screaming to the stocks by knickerless women ― could it be that our Tom is not all
that proficient in the sack, a problem perhaps of having women such as
Kirsty lining up to be laid, and as a consequence the birds have been reluctant to
come out of the trees just in case it reflects on their own uselessness
between the sheets rather than Tom’s?

Indeed when you never have to
dazzle, amuse, charm and seduce the girls into bed, it must be tempting
to simply perform a wham, bam, thank you ma’am routine.

After all, we men are only as good
in bed as the lady leading us a merry and elegant slow, slow, quick-quick
slow foxtrot.

In light of Kirsty’s breathless
observation, I look forward to enthusiastic
reports if only to confirm that her fantasy is not just a damp
squib (squid?!), but
it really is alive and well and as spine-tingling as standing
naked under a waterfall.

There again, Sir Tom might be
blessed with the inherent gift of only bedding women of absolute
discretion ― which sadly rules out Kirsty, at a stroke.

Whatever, talking of sex...

“I really don’t like old
women talking about sex. Or old men for that matter. I think after 65
you should really shut up.”Dame Eileen Atkins, 80, English
actress and occasional screenwriter.

“Things like
drugs, alcohol, smoking ― that’s all over. Sex, who knows? But as far as
I can tell, I think it is probably over.”Sixties star Marianne
Faithfull, 67, English singer, songwriter and actress.

Oh dear, Marianne, at 67 be sure to
keep out of Dame Eileen’s way ― although Kirsty, at 45, can let it all hang
out.

“Never have an affair
with anybody that you wouldn’t enjoy having lunch or dinner with in 25
years’ time.”Game of Thrones actress Dame Diana Rigg, 76, offers
up her advice on love, marriage and everything.

I’m still trying to work out the
logic of all that. I would have thought that you don’t really need to look
further than the first bend along the road, what with its stress-laden ambush.

Or best of all,
early on in the affair get the object of your desire thoroughly drunk ―
while you remain sober, or at least, sober-ish. That will tell you
everything you ever need to know what nasties lie hidden on that
individual’s
hard-drive.

And on that beep-beep note...

Spell-cheque corner: My computer, in its infinite
wisdom, decided that ‘knickerless’ should in fact be ‘knackeries’. As
they say down at the Crazy Horsepower Saloon, there’s no answer to that.

Wednesday, October 22nd

Tuesday: The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge await the arrival of
the
president of Singapore, Tony Tan Keng Yam, at the start of his state visit

Back on track

I KNEW something had been missing
of late off the front pages.

Grounded for more than two months
while battling severe morning sickness ― and the first picture I see of
Kate, she’s smiling.

If ever I need a Patron ― or indeed
a Patron Saint ― for
Look You, a wee
website which, after all, celebrates the smile in all its glorious
forms, then who else?

Luxury wellness communities are the latest craze in
holiday homes, I learn:

“Now you can buy a retreat with vitamin showers,
posture-friendly floors and macrobiotic meals on site. And forget Zumba
― think triathlon training, aquatic suspended-gravity exercises and yoga
on horseback...”

Here comes the sun

Horseback yoga at the new Salamander Resort & Spa in Middleburg, Va.
Have you ever tried yoga on horseback?

Side-saddled

Next year, 49 homes will be
launched at the newly opened, equestrian-themed Salamander Resort & Spa,
set in 340 acres at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains in Middleburg,
Virginia ― hunting country much loved by Jackie Kennedy.

Although the exact plans have yet
to be revealed, prices will start at $1.5m, and falconry, hot
bamboo-stalk massages and horseback yoga will be on offer...

What a marvellously eye-catching picture that is.

But hot bamboo-stalk
massages?

PS: I must finish with this classic clickbait from the day’s
online headlines:

Conman faked being in a coma for two years but was caught walking around
Tesco

As if Tesco didn’t have enough
problems already, already ... witness these two letters spotted in The Times:

Tesco sweetener

Sir, My latest Tesco mail-out
contains a voucher for a free test for type 2 diabetes as well as a
coupon for free chocolate or blueberry muffins.
Is this extremely amoral or superbly ethical?
ELIZABETH SMITH, Holyhead

Not-so-ready meals

Sir, Now that former Ikea boss
Mikael Ohlsson is joining Tesco, does this mean I will have to assemble
my ready meals myself, using wordless diagrams, only to find out that
two potatoes are missing?
MIKE PARFITT, London SW20

Tuesday, October 21st

Not a sausage:
the perils of code words

Spotted in The
Daily Telegraph, a cautionary tale from Goa in selecting your code words
carefully:

Probably the wurst code word in the world

SIR – You report
that a terror suspect is alleged to have used the code word “sausage” to
buy a gun.
It is not the
first time such a code word has been used. When in 1961 Goa, Portugal’s
small enclave in India, faced the military might of India and was
running short of artillery shells or anti-tank grenades (the stories
vary), the commander of the Portuguese garrison sent an urgent request
for replacements to Lisbon using the prearranged code word of chouriços,
or sausages.
The Ministry of
Defence in Lisbon, which had long forgotten the code word, duly
despatched a large consignment of spicy sausages to Goa by plane. Richard
Symington, London SW17

And with one bound,
we jump from code words to meaning of words. This, from The Times:

It’s no secret

Sir, Rob Mathews
says he is unable to understand management consultancy. It’s simple:
management consultancy is common sense overlaid with gobbledegook.
The gobbledegook
comes in various layers of opacity. The fee is in direct proportion to
the opacity and size of the ensuing report.
JOHN GARDNER, Winchester

That reminds me
of the fuss at a top firm of management consultants when it was reported
that someone had called the gook a gunt ― but it turns out that
actually, someone had questioned who the hell had called the gunt a
gook.

Ahh, the old
ones, slightly paraphrased, are best ― and not an asterisk in sight.

Be all that as it may, a few choice
responses to the management consultancy letter...

Nous, no practice

Sir, This may
help Rob Mathews: a management consultant is someone who knows how to
make love in 120 exciting, spectacular and exotic ways, but does not
know any women.
DAVID HIMSWORTH, Filey, N Yorks

Sir, I thought a
management consultant was someone to whom you lent your watch so as to
enable them to tell you the time.
TONY WESTHEAD, Amersham, Bucks

Top-notch watch

Sir, If a
management consultant uses a client’s watch to tell them the time, be
assured the client is someone with a very expensive watch who doesn’t
know the time of day.
LEON POLLOCK, Fellow of the Institute of Consulting,
Sutton Coldfield, W Midlands

Ah yes, knowing the
price of everything but the value of nothing i.e. politicians and civil
servants.

Advice watch

Sir, Tony
Westhead is describing a general consultant. A management consultant
would borrow your watch to tell you the time ... and keep your watch.
KERRY THOMAS, Tilehurst, Berks

So there.

Never forget to check your
rear-view mirror

Yesterday I
mentioned that my mother advised me never to get a tattoo ― and I have
since observed that a tattoo is a sure sign of lack of self-esteem, no
matter how successful or rich the wearer.

Well then...

“I would love a
tattoo. I just don’t know where to put it. My dad would kill me.”TV
chef Jamie Oliver, 39½ (nearly)

“There’s a weird
thing about wearing this much jewellery ― [80 grand’s worth] ― it feels
like having sex all day long. It gives you this buzz, it’s quite
pleasant.”Actress Sienna Guillory, 39½ (more or less), who was bedecked in
diamonds when she attended the opening of the new Gismondi London store.
[Gismondi = “Give us the money” store?]

♫♫♫ Ink, a
dink a dink, a dink a dink, a dink a doo...
...It’s got the whole world swoonin’

Do you know, Sienna
Guillory has hit on something. That is probably why celebrities cover themselves
in jewellery and tattoos. They are furiously making love to themselves
all day long.

Whatever, is it me
or does David Beckham, up there, really look like something the cat
brought in, what with all those tattoos?

And on that
score, a couple more letters from The Times:

Tat for tat

Sir, Tattoos.
Was there ever a more apposite three-letter start to another word for
eyesore?
EDWARD MACAULEY, Cobham, Surrey

More tat

Sir, If I am
prejudiced against people with tattoos, does this make me a tattooist?
MAUD RYDER-SCOTT, Winson, Glos

Hm, tat dragged in by the cat.

Monday, October 20th

Curious news from the front

IT all kicked off with a newspaper article about a survey by the John Lewis
upscale department store ― noted for its Christmas advert, coming soon
to a TV near you ― which has been taking a poke and a peep into men’s underwear, so to speak.

Here are two relevant points of
interest:

Norwich (East)

Less is more in Norwich, which is
the Y-Fronts capital of Britain, according to John Lewis. Fittingly,
television’s
most famous Y-front wearer, Alan Partridge, also hails from the region.

Wales

Welshman have been crowned
Britain’s
underwear “fashionistas”
by John Lewis, with the colour of their most popular pants ― blue ― the
best selling underwear colour. Blue pants outsell all others by 21pc in
Wales.

Then this appeared in the letters
page of the Telegraph:

Expiring underpants

SIR – After more than 40 years in
general practice I can confidently assert that the spectacle of the
typical Englishman in his underwear is little short of tragic. Retailers
should put a use-by date in their products.
Incidentally, although I live in Norfolk, I do not wear
Y-fronts. Dr David Bryce, Norwich

I am unsure why the Good Doctor
should be ashamed of Y-fronts. I mean, how many people does he show them
to? On the other hand, perhaps he just wants to distance himself from
Alan Partridge.

Whatever, a couple of days later, another undercover letter:

Underlying condition? It’s the underwear

Are your
undergarments adversely affecting your health?

SIR – As a boy seaman confined
with an ear infection in the Royal Naval Hospital in Singapore, I was
asked by the surgeon admiral whether I wore underpants.
My answer in the affirmative was declared to be the
cause of my condition. Is there any evidence to support this diagnosis?
Nick Young, Cavendish, Suffolk

The above was trumped by this wildly witty response
spotted in the comments section...

Stigenace: Might
there have been a misunderstanding about his cochlea?

Good, eh?

I also submitted a response to the
letter from the anti-Y-front doc ― which did make it into print.

Mother knows best

SIR – The only advice my mother
gave me regarding clothes was to make sure that everything I wore was
clean, fresh, properly aired and with no holes surplus to specification.
Nothing else matters.
She also advised me never to get a tattoo. Indeed, I
have observed that a tattoo is a sure sign of lack of self-esteem, no
matter how successful or rich the wearer. HB

Which drew this online response:

Stigenace:
I guess HB is not writing about cultures where tattoos are a rite of
passage and indicative of “rank, social status, power and prestige”. (http://www.zealandtattoo.co.nz...)

ilPugliese: He might be commenting on how their belief systems
are faulty.

Indeed, ilPugliese, indeed.

PS: My mother also insisted that I should never put on damp clothes,
hence why they should always be aired. If I got wet either walking or
singing in the rain,
say, then it did not matter so much if my body heat naturally dried out
my clothes ― but wearing damp clothes was a no-no, a killer. And I guess
she was spot on.

Sunday, October 19th

Picture story of the week

The Queen and
Prince Philip walk through a sea of ceramic red poppies at the 'Blood
Swept Lands and Seas of Red' installation at the Tower of London, last
Thursday

YESTERDAY I smiled rather agreeably at a Dinefwr Park skyline decorated
with the flaming leaves of autumn. Twenty-four hours later and I am
captivated by a different sea of red.

Today’sSunday Times features a startling picture similar to the above ― and
I must agree with the newspaper that it is indeed the picture story of
the week.

Cut down in their prime

By November 11, Armistice Day,
888,246 poppies will have been planted in the artist Paul Cummins’s
installation ― one flower for every British or Commonwealth military
death during the First World War.

With almost all of the poppies now
in place, the Queen looked suitably sombre as she walked through the sea
of ceramic crimson blooms during a tour of the Tower of London.

An image both moving and smiley (in
an exceedingly heart-warming way).

Footnote

The Telegraph
newspaper has just announced its sixth book of unpublished missives
submitted to its Letters page, What Will They Think of Next,
and a few choice examples appeared in the paper to herald its
publication.

Given the presence
of the Duke of Edinburgh, above, himself a former naval officer of
course, I
enjoyed this:

Royal flushes

SIR – Many congratulations to
Prince Philip on his 93rd birthday. I see he is going to Germany on
Thursday. Where does he get his travel insurance? Brian Baxter,
Oakington, Cambridgeshire

Saturday, October 18th

Costume change: Act IV, Scene III

Flaming beauties

HAVING followed the changing hues
of the two large chestnut trees at Newton House in Dinefwr Park & Castle
(see August 31 & September 23), I couldn’t resist this up-dated fleeting glance,
caught as the rising sun popped out from behind some fast moving clouds.

The two chestnuts are extreme left
― and in between the smaller sweet chestnut (plus the two next
along), all three sweets desperate to hang on to the green leaves of summer in this
current spell
of stormy but balmy autumn weather.

A smashing sight to greet me along
my morning walk through the park, especially so Newton House itself,
looking dead smart in the spotlight.

Oh yes, yesterday I smiled at the tight isobars climbing all over
‘weather girl’ Carol Kirkwood’s warm front ― indeed there was a letter
I’d meant to share with you about the flibbertigibbet nature of our
weather here in the UK, so this then from The Times:

Climate exchange

Sir, September was notable for
its warmth and low rainfall, while August was wet and cool.
Presumably this means that between August 1
and September 30 our weather was staggeringly average.
Should this be a cause for concern?CLIVE
HUMPHRIES, Croesau Bach, Shropshire

Friday, October 17th

A warm front on a stormy day

Bill Turnbull, BBC
Breakfast presenter: “I was taking great interest in your
isobars there. Would you say they are tightly packed?”

An entertaining
innuendo-laden exchange on
live television ― I mean, just look at those isobars on her, um,
that weather map ― however, I feel a variation on a theme coming on:
Q: Define a meteorologist.
A: A fellow who can look at a girl’s isobars and
tell whether.

_________________________________________________

Storm in a D-cup

THE above naughty but nice exchange
unfolded last Tuesday morning ― and all to do with that monster of a
storm stretching all the way across the north Atlantic, from the coasts
of Portugal and Spain up to Greenland, flirting with France
and the British Isles along the way.

Hence the current wet and stormy weather
here in Llandampness, along with all points west, south, east and north.

The massive system, along with two hurricanes named Fay
and Gonzalo, is creating extreme weather in the Atlantic ocean.

Back at the beginning of September, this headline was
spotted in our newspapers:

Autumn? It will be warm until November

Higher than average
temperatures set to last for the next three months say forecasters

I wrote about it at the time and mentioned that I’d make a note in my
diary in November just to see how accurate the forecast would turn out
to be.

Well, so far so good because all
they mentioned was the higher than average temperatures ― and to be
honest, today it really is quite balmy, that huge storm dragging warm
air from south of the border, down Azores way, air originally part of tropical
storm Fay, the forward scout for Hurricane Gonzalo which has just
trampled all over Bermuda.

When it comes
to titillating innuendo, Britain stands proud. Long may we hold firm and
keep it up

Thus
confirmed a recent Telegraph headline.

Despite the occasional half-masted
attempt to stop it, the BBC continues to spank out innuendo aplenty ―
see the forecast, above, not to mention The Great British Bake Off
with all sorts of things rising to the occasion all over the shop.

Anyway, this smiley snatch from the Telegraph
piece:

But the best place
historically for such stuff is BBC radio’s I’m Sorry I Haven’t A Clue,
where Samantha ― the show’s fondly imagined, non-existent scorer ― was
once said to be “going out for ice cream with her Italian gentleman
friend” and was “looking forward to licking the nuts off a large
Neapolitan”.

There were complaints earlier
this year that Samantha’s treatment was sexist and, despite being
imaginary, her innocence needed protecting. The BBC thankfully refused,
and vowed to let Samantha keep satisfying legions of men up and down the
country.

Nothing can go on forever, sadly,
and one loss to that show was the regular mention of Lionel Blair. When
introducing the round called “sound charades”, tribute would be paid to
the former Give Us A Clue host with lines such as: “Who can
ever forget the joy on Lionel’s face as he tried to pull off Twelve
Angry Men in under two minutes.”

And then these online comments, the first a reminder that often the old
ones are the best...

John Green: Man
walks into a bar and asks for a double entendre and the barmaid gives
him one ... ker-tish.

Jhm22: In the savoury biscuit section of my local supermarket, I
couldn’t help noticing the brand ‘Salticrax’. Made me wonder for a
moment...

Makka2000: Innuendo ― isn’t that an Italian suppository?Blonderella: Only for men.

Enjoying a coffee
while listening to Shân Cothi on Radio Cymru, the Welsh language
station, I learnt that yesterday, Wednesday 15th, was Diwrnod Shwmae Su’mae
(“Howdy doody, nice to see you, to see you...” day), 24 hours dedicated
to promoting the idea of starting every conversation with “Shwmae” (Hello,
the south Wales version), “Su’mae” (north Wales speak) or “Shwdi!”
(Crazy Horsepower Saloon lingo).

The annual campaigning day aims
to show that here in Wales the Welsh language is a part of us all ― fluent
speakers, learners or those shy about their Welsh.

Being that
English is the default language of communication, even in an essentially
Welsh Llandampness ― excepting of course those individuals we always
speak Welsh with anyway ― if you start a conversation with a face not
entirely familiar, whether at a supermarket checkout, bank, pub,
wherever, with a cheery “Shwmae, shwmae”, it is quite surprising how
many will respond in Welsh.

Anyway, also on
Shân Cothi’s programme was a feature involving a
local school, Ysgol Bro Dinefwr, which was holding a Diwrnod dim
ysgrifennu (a no writing day) and instead were having a Diwrnod siarad
a gwrando (a speaking and listening only day).

So pens and paper banned for the
whole day with everyone having to concentrate on the spoken word.

What a splendid idea. So I thought
I’d join in...

So here I am today, having enjoyed a day of not so much speaking and
listening but rather looking and listening (I resisted the temptation of
talking to myself).

So, by chance I came across on
Twitter a cartoon by Peter Brookes of The Times.

Two things I need to point out
for those in faraway places, etc...

There is currently a ‘feeling nuts’
campaign in the media, which is to draw men’s attention to testicular
cancer, with chaps grabbing their privates, à la Michael Jackson in
his performing prime.

And of course, last Friday, as
previously covered hereabouts, Ukip and Nigel Farage gave David Cameron
and the Conservatives a bit of a bloody nose in a by-election.

Vinnie Jones, now 49, was a
professional soccer player, and still holds the record for the fastest
yellow card (three seconds). He was indeed a mean machine on the football
pitch. The fans worshiped him, which rather underlines the association
between war and sport.

The unfortunate chap on the
receiving end of the grab is Newcastle United’s Paul Gascoigne, now 47, who was an
exceptionally talented young footballer and was, to boot, a bit of a nut case, in an
amusing sort of way, always doing silly things both on and off the
pitch.

Sadly, Paul has been much in the
news of late because he has become a slave to the demon drink.
Exceedingly sad. What the Gods give they quickly take away.

Anyway, back with that picture, I
don’t think Vinnie ever expected to be caught on film, but the image has
entered sporting folklore, probably because never has one shot so
perfectly highlighted the characters of the two people featured.

So that’s what I smiled at
yesterday, but never wrote about ― and as I mentioned at the top, hence the smiley question
mark, below, ho, ho, ho...

Wednesday, October 15th

Tuesday, October 14th

“We can’t bomb Isil in Syria, but we
could send in Jeremy Clarkson with
an offensive number plate”

Stone me

“THEY wanted blood. One said they were going to
barbecue us and eat the meat.”Jeremy Clarkson, 54, English broadcaster and dedicated shite-stirrer
of note, describes how he and his Top Gear team had to flee Argentina
with tails-between-legs after they were pelted with stones by an angry
mob, furious about their H982 FKL car number plate that appeared to
refer to and mock the Falklands conflict.

“Top Gear production purchased three cars for a
forthcoming programme; to suggest that this car was either chosen for
its number plate, or that an alternative number plate was substituted
for the original is completely untrue.”Andy Wilman, 52, executive producer of
Top Gear, the most widely watched factual (factual!?) television programme in
the world, according to the Guinness World Records book, 2013.

“We would never, ever
make a joke about the Falklands conflict.”Richard Hammond, 44, noted for
co-hosting Top Gear with Jeremy Clarkson and James May, speaking on
Monday’s Chris Evans wireless show, clearly singing from the Top Gear
hymn sheet as distributed by Andy Wilman, and reassuring listeners that
the H982 FKL cock-up was just that, a purely fortuitous balls-up.

Oh c’mon, Richard, have you never, ever read Jeremy
Clarkson’s columns? Where nothing is off limits?

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury

Given that Top Gear’s production team is, by
definition, stacked to the ceiling with bright young things, not to
mention the three clever old farts who front Jeremy Clarkson’s
Alternative Flying Circus, are we seriously to believe that not one
single person spotted the ambush labelled FKL ― but the moment it went
online those curious odds and sods who hang out in Twitterland spotted
it instantly?

Yes, why does television find it so easy to
be economical with the actuality?

Many see Clarkson as a cross
between a court jester and the Pied Piper, hence millions hanging on his
every word.

Much as I enjoy reading Jeremy as a
perfect charge point to top-up my rogue juvenile gene battery ― along
with watching Top Gear and listening to Chris Evans on the wireless ― I
tend to think of Clarkson as more of a General George Custer, a clever
fellow but lacking any sense of instinct and ambush.

When you dedicate your professional
life to rubbishing everything and everybody, albeit tongue-in-cheek, you
must, surely, sense that one day you will ride into Little Bighorn, where
Chief Sitting Bull will be waiting in ambush, sporting the mother of all
grins.

Be thankful, Jeremy, that you and
your colleagues escaped with your scalps.

Next time, though, Chief Crazy
Horsepower might not be quite so incompetent.

And on that bombshell...

Monday, October 13th

Cock of the
walk
strip

LAST Friday, I think it was, I was
perusing the Telegraph’s online ‘Most viewed’ Top Ten clickbait list,
and there, sitting at No. 1:

“Dwarf stripper
gets bride pregnant on her hen night”

As is my wont, I resisted the bait
― and instead imagined how the conversation would have gone: “Hello, big boy
― and
what’s your name then?” “It’s Rooster Little, darling, but my pals call me
Foghorny Legover...” And it all just sort of went downhill from
there...

Well blow me, on the Top Ten list at No. 10, was
this:

“Dwarf handed colouring book and crayons by waitress while on date with
fiancée...”

I gave a sort of juvenile giggle ―
before again moving quickly on...

Well blow me one more time, on the Saturday morning, that last story
featured in the Western Mail, the national newspaper of Wales, under the
headline “Small blunder is no big thing for forgiving James”, mostly
because, I
presume, the incident happened at a Harvester Inn in Cardiff.

Anyway, I shall leave both stories
in the capable hands of that other Rooster Little, Rod Liddle, as per his weekly Sunday Times
column ― well, he does have a way with crowing:

My baby’s dad? Well, he wasn’t Bashful

A Spanish bride-to-be was enjoined
by her prospective husband to thoroughly enjoy her hen night.

And so she did. The girls went to
see a dwarf doing a striptease, as you do. And nine months later the now
married woman surprised her husband by giving birth to a dwarf, claims
the website LasCincoDelDiaDelilah.

[No, I jest, I added Delilah, it
just sort of tripped off the tongue; the website is
actually LasCincoDelDia. Anyway, back with Rod...]

Apparently the husband was
unconvinced by an initial defence of “coincidence” and the woman
eventually confessed all.

How low can you go? Oh, about 3ft
6in, if I’ve had a few.

Meanwhile, another dwarf, James
Lusted, 26, who is actually 3ft 7in, decided to take his fiancée Chloe
Roberts, 20, out for a romantic meal at a restaurant in Cardiff. And
what do you think happened when he sat down at the table?

This is the thing: in general,
people mean well. There is no malice in them. They try to do the best
they can ― but sometimes, through no fault of their own, they get it
slightly wrong. So imagine how Mr Lusted felt when he was handed a
colouring book and crayons. It would sap your confidence, wouldn’t it?

Anyway, this is the column to turn
to first for dwarf-related news and comment.

Apropos that colouring book and crayons tale, this again from
Saturday’s Western Mail:

It was only when the waitress heard
James’ deep voice that she realised her embarrassing blunder.

But it was the highlight of the
night for James and his bride-to-be Chloe Roberts, who have been
laughing about it ever since.

James said: “As I said thank you to
the waitress she heard my voice and knew I wasn’t a child. She
immediately put the colouring book behind her back in shock. But I am
man enough to see the funny side ― I would never take offence.”

I mean, you do have to feel sorry for the
waitress. As Rod Liddle said, she meant well.

In fact, when I saw a picture of
James I recognised him as an occasional presenter on the Welsh-language
television channel S4C, and as much as I’ve seen of him ― er, you
know what I mean ― he seems a jolly sort of fellow who really would see the
funny side.

Apparently, he also competed in the
World Dwarf Games twice and played badminton at national level.

How does the saying go? “Fate is
what happens to you, destiny is what you do with it.”

Incidentally, do you suppose the
Spanish lady is now known as Snow White? And the stripper Happy?

Oh yes, this spotted in today’s Telegraph Top
Ten, straight in at No. 5, if you’ll pardon the expression---

Martin Amiss: how Hitler had sex

Now quite why anyone would want to
contemplate Adolf Hitler’s sex life rather escapes me, so I again resisted the
clickbait, mostly because I’m convinced Hitler would have deployed the Blitzkrieg method:

Adolf Hitler: When push comes to shove I am a man of very
few words ― do you or don’t you?

WITH the cast list of the brand new Dad’s Army film having
just been announced, the papers have been awash with pictures of the
original platoon.

There was one photo that instantly caught my eye, not just because I
hadn’t seen it before, but I could suddenly spot several post-war
British prime ministers staring out at me...

Before I share my Parliamentary thoughts, take five
and a long look at the above to see who you can spot ― just remember
that we are talking core character
... we’ll compare
notes in a moment...

In the meantime,
a couple of letters spotted in The Daily Telegraph:

What he always wanted

SIR – I recently
heard some expert refer to a “set of behaviours”. Can anyone tell me
where I might purchase one as an anniversary gift for my husband? Mary Ross, Warrington, Cheshire

...which drew
this instant online response...

Stigenace: From
the same store that sells “skill sets”.

Brilliant. Game, set and match, I’d say.

Bearded gent on high

SIR – When the
late novelist Elizabeth Jane Howard was small there was a picture on the
wall of the study belonging to her grandfather, the composer Sir Arthur Somervell, that was treated with such reverence she believed it must be
God. Imagine her
disappointment when an inventory compiled by removal men listed it as
“Bearded gent in beaded frame signed J Brahms”.Garry
Humphreys,
London N13

That seems an
ideal junction at which to return to the Dad’s Army platoon to compile
an inventory of British Prime Ministers.

Seven faces staring out at me ― but
I actually spot eight PMs:

Capt. George
Mainwaring ― Gordon Brown: Brown gave the impression that he knew what he
was doing ― even fooled the Labour party into voting him prime minister without
any opposition ― yet he was clueless.

Pte. Joe Walker
― David Cameron: Just a spiv with a college education.

Feel free to
disagree.

Friday, October 10th

Nigel
Farage, leader of Ukip, clearly in Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah mood

(REUTERS) ― Britain’s anti-EU UK Independence
Party [Ukip] won its first elected seat in parliament on Friday by a
landslide and came a close second in another vote, proving it poses a
threat to the country’s two main parties in a national election next
year.

I am not a political animal, but I am truly fascinated by the rise of
Ukip.

Last Tuesday, this letter appeared in The
Times:

Wear Ukip? No!

Sir, Daniel Finkelstein may be right on the
narrow point (“Ukip is doomed to be the dead parrot party”, Oct 1) but
he misses the wider picture.
Ukip is to policy what the catwalk is to fashion: it
launches outrageous and populist policies not in expectation that they
will be adopted, but in order to watch the mainstream parties
manufacture high street versions that are buyable.
We will never wear Ukip, but everything on offer at the
election will have been influenced by it.
JANE SHAW, Dorking, Surrey

10/10

Well done, Jane Shaw. Move to the top of the
class. Honestly, that is such a wise letter.

Ukip has wriggled its way into the public
consciousness because of Europe. Nothing more, nothing less.

For many, many moons, the majority of British
people have wanted out of Europe, at least in some form or other.

I spotted this online, from the Guardian
newspaper, dated June 2014:

British people favour leaving the European Union, according to poll

Nearly half would vote to leave
while only 37% would vote to stay, though the picture changes if
membership is renegotiated

An interesting point of order is how many of our laws are now ‘made in
Brussels’ and then merely rubber-stamped here in the UK with our own
parliament having absolutely no say in the matter.

While pro-Europeans may quote a
2005 UK government estimate of 9 per cent of laws being made in
Brussels, a House of Commons library paper concludes: “All measurements
have their problems and it is possible to justify any measure between 15
per cent and 50 per cent or thereabouts.”

Viviane Reding, a Luxembourg
politician and European Commission Vice-President, puts the figure at 70
per cent, though she did say that that was the percentage of laws in the
UK “co-decided” by the European Parliament, whatever that actually means.

Goodness, 70 per
cent of our laws that the UK Parliament seemingly has no say in whatsoever? Wow!

Both main British parties have
consistently ignored the views of the majority regarding Europe ― then
suddenly, the elephant on the doorstep, Ukip.

David Cameron has already promised
a referendum ― not that that means anything ― but nothing yet from Labour.

It’s going to be ever such a
fascinating journey from now to the general election next May.

♬♪♫

A couple of letters, spotted in The Times:

Doe, d’oh, do

Sir, Following your “Correction
and Clarification” (Oct 1), that “the female of the red deer is a hind,
not a doe”, could I please ask for assurance that a ray remains a drop
of golden sun, and that “me” is still an acceptable name to call myself?
THE VENERABLE GAVIN COLLINS, Archdeacon of the Meon

I’m ashamed to say I originally read that as ‘Archdeacon of the Moon’ ―
what an appointment, I thought, nearer my God to thee, and all that...

Ivor the Search Engine
put me right, though: The Archdeacon of the Meon supports clergy and
parishes in the deaneries of Fareham, Gosport, Bishop’s Waltham and
Petersfield, all in the Portsmouth-ish area.

Zip-a-Dee

Sir, Writing as someone who is ―
um, how shall I put it? ― over 25 (“To er is human, but only for the
elderly”), I find that my favourite and indeed most useful word in a
crisis is “doo-dah”.
GAYE POULTON, London N7

Indeed, Gaye Poulton ― and I guess Nigel Farage may well have been singing this today:

♫♥♫♥♫♥♫♥♫♥♫♥♫

Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah,
Zip-A-Dee-A;

My oh my, what a wonderful day.
Plenty of sunshine heading my way...

Thursday, October 9th

95-year-old
Captain Eric ‘Winkle’ Brown, hero
of this once Great British Parish ~ see below

There are war stories and there are War Stories

PERUSING yesterday’s TV listings in
The Sunday TimesCulture magazine, the first
programme given special attention under Wednesday’s
Choice was this:

We rarely preview a repeated
documentary, but few subjects deserve the attention more than Eric
Melrose Brown, the 95-year-old former Royal Navy officer and test pilot
whose life story is told here by the man himself.

He was at the Munich Olympics,
the Nuremberg rallies, the liberation of Belsen and the trial of Hermann
Göring, and served on the Atlantic convoys and in the Battle of Britain.

If you missed it in June, watch it
now. If you saw it then, you will probably want to watch it all over
again.

This morning I submitted the following to You
say, The Sunday
Times comment column given over to its readers to express
their opinions on television and radio programmes:

A magnificent man...
...in his often dodgy flying machines

Thank you for
highlighting the repeat of Britain’s Greatest Pilot ― I missed it
first time round. Apart from Captain Winkle Brown’s natural-born talent
and bravery, I enjoyed the way he used simple English to deliver
throwaway lines to such great effect.

And what about that first ever
landing of a jet plane on the heaving deck of an aircraft carrier ― and
seemingly hundreds of men in suits rush out from every bolt hole to
surround him and congratulate him (no live TV coverage back then, in
December 1945, remember).

He then picks himself up, dusts
himself down ― and takes off again. There are people like Winkle out
there now, probably reading this ― but sadly they are not running the
country.

What can I add?

Well, he flew aircraft from
Britain, the United States, Germany, Italy and Japan and is listed in
the Guinness Book of World Records as holding the record
for flying the greatest number of different aircraft.

The official record is 487, but
includes only basic types. For example Captain Brown flew fourteen (14)
versions of the Spitfire and Seafire and although these versions are
very different they appear only once in the list. The list includes only
aircraft flown by Brown as ‘Captain in Command’.

Because of the special
circumstances involved, he doesn’t think that this record will ever be
beaten.

Captain Brown also holds the
world’s record for the most carrier landings, 2,407, partly compiled in
testing the arrestor wires on more than twenty aircraft carriers during
World War II. A US naval pilot got as far as 1,600 before calling it a
day.

Captain Eric ‘Winkle’
Brown takes off in the de Havilland Sea Vampire on that day in
December 1945 - as the many aboard the Royal Navy carrier HMS Ocean
can testify

What I also noted in the
documentary was his meticulous research and preparation, especially before
those dangerous test flights; indeed he himself put such detailed groundwork down to his
staying alive in the air.

Yep: homework,
homework, homework...

Here’s a short YouTube extract from
the documentary of that famous first landing of a jet on an aircraft
carrier ― and the crowd rush forward to surround the plane... Captain Eric Brown – Feeling’s
believing

The cat’s whiskers

Should you wish to see the full
documentary it will be available on iPlayer for four weeks ― just search
‘Britain’s Greatest Pilot’ ― or click on the following YouTube link. It
is a quite remarkable story and it does make you wonder if, just like
pussycats, some
people too are blessed with nine lives:
Britain’s Greatest Pilot

Wednesday, October 8th

Ashes to ashes, rust to rust

LAST month I parted company with my faithful old Saab.

I say faithful:
it was, at nearly 25 years of age, just starting to unravel at the
seams, in a yellow-alert sort of way.

Nothing serious; mechanically it
was still pretty sound, little things needing attention, for sure ― but
the body was beginning to suffer from that brown sauce curse, the dreaded rust.

So I decided to part company with
900i while
it was still roadworthy with a current MOT, and I could drive it
unhindered to the scrap yard where I got a hundred quid for it, which
was really it’s market value, give or take.

Anyway, with the displaying of the
road tax disc on the windscreen also now, coincidentally, a thing of
history ― as confirmed up there on today’s welcome mat ― I had to laugh
XXL at this Daily Telegraph cartoon, compliments of who
else but the other always welcome...

Many a true word, etc...

I really do enjoy Matt’s humour,
along with his extravagant talent to spot the smile in any given
situation. And the gormless looking characters are so lovable. I mean,
look up there at the perplexed old boy with the pipe...

Indeed, a year or so ago I saw
Matt, aka Mathew Pritchett, 50, interviewed about his work and I have to
say I smiled when he said that with every passing day he and his wife
were growing more like the couple regularly featured in his cartoons.

How wonderful. Truth to tell, I too
am growing more like the fellow up there with the pipe, and becoming
increasingly confused at the comings and goings in life, the universe
and nearly everything.

So my driving wheel has turned full circle. I was brought up in the
country so I was driving about the farm from an exceedingly young age ―
tractors and a pick-up truck.

They didn’t let me near the car
until I was 17. Anyway, when I started work I needed my own wheels, so a
cousin of mine, a thoroughly endearing Arthur Daley type character, great company but sadly
no longer with us, found me a little second-hand Austin A30 ― the
forerunner to the Mini, really.

“Just use this for the time being,”
he reassured me, “and I’ll find you something befitting.” He clearly
empathised that a baby Austin wasn’t quite the thing
for a trainee young buck about town to be seen even dead in, let alone
alive and sniffing.

To be honest the A30 didn’t
particularly hinder my gallivanting after the girls ― but about six
months later, cousin Brian turned up at the farm with a second-hand
Triumph TR3 sports car.

It was love at first sight.

I’ve driven all shapes and sizes of
cars since, but nothing has ever come near the TR3 for out-and-out
pleasure, mostly because, I guess, I was the proud owner of a sports car at 18,
the age at which the male of the species should be bombing along our
highways and byways in a flirty machine with a pretty young thing in the
passenger seat.

“It’s the car, right?” Batman once
famously said about the Batmobile while chatting-up a bird. “Chicks love
the car.”

Everything is relative, so I
was a sort of daft-as-a-bat man zooming about Llansunshine in my TR3.

Crucially too I never had a crash while driving
it. Or in any of the other sports cars I
owned, a few minor and inconsequential bumps and scrapes excepted. More
by luck than judgment, if I am honest.

Mind you, I did have my share of
incidents with other cars I’ve driven. But I am still here.

Anyway, as I say, the wheel has now turned
full circle, so I thought I’d get myself one of these new Minis. They
really are rather agreeable little motors ― less of the little, actually
― but the price was just too steep considering the low mileage I am
likely to do, plus I am only looking for a reliable runabout.

So I plumped for the very basic and bottom of the
range Kia with its 7-year guarantee (or 100,000 miles), which suits me
just fine. And at £8,000 pretty much half the price of a Mini.

And I have to say, for a 1.0 litre
car it has astonishing pep, especially when I relate it back to that
first A30 I owned, the last time I drove anything so starved of power and
punch.

But here’s the thing, although
there is no road tax to pay on this particular model, I had to have a tax disc to display,
just for the
month of September.

Now you would have thought, given
that new registrations came into effect in September, with loads of new
cars sold, the DVLA would have tied in the abolition of the tax disc
with the September registrations ― or waited until next March when the
next new registration numbers come in.

No wonder the country is in a mess
when it is run by clowns who couldn’t organise a leg-over in a bordello
on a lads’ night out. (I know, I know, I may well have used that line before, but it is all
my own work and I’m quite proud of it.)

Be all that as it may, and given
that I can now remove the tax disc, what shall I stick in the holder?

While I ponder, here’s a brace of
perfectly juxtaposed letters spotted in the newspapers. The first in the
Daily Mail, from a Brian Rushton of Stourport-on-Severn, Worcs:

“Now that we don’t have to display a tax disc, what’s the best way to
utilise my collection of Guinness labels?”

Very good, Brian ― but here’s the second, as spotted in The Times,
from a Ron Osmond
of Hinckley, Leics:

“For those readers wondering what to do with redundant car tax discs, I
find that they are very attractive when glued to the outside of Guinness
bottles.”

Ahh, spot the difference in agreeable humour between a Daily Mail
and a Times reader. Marvellous.

But back with my now redundant windscreen tax disc holder. What shall I
stick in there?

Got it ― and I often do wear a hat...

Tuesday, October 7th

A smiley missive spotted in The
Times:

Faraway humour

Sir, Your story “Why sex is no
laughing matter in Yorkshire” (Oct 1) reminded me of an interview with
Ken Dodd following the comedian’s debut at the London Palladium, when
Ken was asked by Granada TV’s Bob Greaves whether he’d been apprehensive
about his reception in the capital.
“Yes, a little,” replied Ken. “I mean, you can tell a
joke in Liverpool that’s guaranteed to get a laugh, but they wouldn’t
laugh at it in London.”
“And why do you think that is?” asked Greaves.
“Well, they can’t hear it,” Dodd replied.
BJ WEBBER, Bournemouth

Oh dear, never mind “never forget to smile” ― I laughed out loud just
there. It’s the unexpected twist in the tale, I think. Anyway, very
funny.

And talking of getting a laugh in
London, I see that Boris Johnson, mayor of Old London Town, has joked
his way into the new Oxford Dictionary of Quotations:

“My policy on cake is still pro having it and pro eating it.”

Wonderful, so very Boris; I mean,
you can hear him saying it as he gives his blond thatch a quick ruffle.

Three more letters to The Times,
which generate variations on the theme of a smile:

Work, not luck

Sir, Peter Cave (letter, Sept 30)
refers to pension tax arrangements for “those fortunate enough to have
spare earnings”.
My observation is that spare earnings are not usually
attributable to good fortune.
DEREK WALDUCK, Snape, Suffolk

People problems

Sir, Clive Aslet [Editor at
Large, Country Life magazine] advocates killing creatures
that destroy the environment [deer, mink, badgers, magpies...] and whose
numbers are out of control threatening other species.
Presumably he exempts the creature most responsible by
far for such crimes: homo sapiens.
MAGGIE BARRETT, Sanderstead, Surrey

Editor
at Large, eh? Sounds like something that should be culled. Whatever...

Steviebaby: I
switched the TV on this morning, to watch the Liberal Democrats
conference in Glasgow. After five minutes I switched off, then moved the
position of my chair to face the lounge door, which I had just finished
painting.

Stigenace: I hope it was magnolia. You wouldn’t want a ‘racy’
colour such as beige as it’s inclined to over-stimulate.

Headline, again in the
Telegraph:

According to new research, clocking up 7.6 hours of sleep every night
will cut down our
chances of taking sick days ― just don’t skim over the quality vs.
quantity issue

Yep, it’s the uninterrupted sleep that does
the trick, no doubt.

Whatever, this comment tickled my old
smileometer ― and I
don’t think it’s from
David, incidentally...

Cameron: Good news
for insomniacs: Only three sleeps till Christmas.

Yes, I know, only 11 weeks ... oh, and I enjoyed the
formal use of the word “till”
instead of “until”,
because till can also mean a cash register ― I mean, till and Christmas
go together like a horse and carriage...

Monday, October 6th

Turning over an old leaf

LAST Saturday I featured the first
real fall of autumn leaves in the wake of a wet and windy Friday night into
Saturday early morning ― and I cursed not having taken a picture of the
carpet of leaves covering the road into town, as captured in the car’s
headlights.

Well blow me, this morning was a
repeat performance, mucho heavy rain ― and this time quite a stormy night.

So no walk again today due to
the rain and wind. I drive into town for a paper, just after 7
o’clock, dawn breaking in the driving rain, and as I motor through the tunnel that is the avenue of trees
along the way ― I am greeted by another substantial fall of leaves.

So this time I actually stop and
take a photograph from inside the car...

Autumn leaves at first light

A stormy and wet
early-morning - but there’s light at the end of the tunnel

A smiley sight, to be sure. And
being a Monday morning quite a few vehicles have already passed this way
and cleared some of the leaves off the road...

Last Wednesday, the 1st of October, I
featured a few smiley alternative sounds to wake up to of a morning,
rather, that is, than the annoying wail of an alarm clock ― see the
Rise & Shine
section of my Desert Island Video Jukebox, alongside.

So imagine my delight in reading
this weird and wonderful quote:

“I slowly open my eyes.
I start the day by ‘oil swilling’ to detoxify. I then engage with
pranayama and a light meditation along with some of my favourite
mantras.”Early mornings with the
actress Sadie Frost ― the 49-year-old actress, producer and ex-wife of
Jude Law ― is clearly a bit of a hoot.

I shall leave you to meditate on
that for a while ... thinking about it, and the state of my drawers ―
furniture wise, that is ― I should be shattered all of the time ... right, Sadie again:

“I try to do two big walks
on Hampstead Heath every weekend with my dogs. I really believe that
being around nature and all those trees and oxygen is such a healing
experience, especially early in the mornings ― if you can get there
before 8am that’s just fantastic.”

Well, I can’t argue
with that ― apropos all those trees: see autumn’s falling leaves, above ― and why I enjoy my
daily early-morning walks, and always before 8am. Except in the deep
mid-winter, obviously, when 8am is pretty much the start time.

But everything in life is relative.

Sunday, October 5th

Saturday, October 4th

Autumn arrives with a fall in the Towy Valley

I’ve
just blown in...

A COUPLE of days back I mentioned
how the settled and warm weather of September had provided perfect
conditions for this year’s bountiful blackberry crop.

However, I had noted on Thursday’s
weather forecast that the glorious and welcome fine spell was due to
finally break come the weekend.

And this morning ― well, no morning
walk because it was wet, precisely as the forecasters had promised. So
just after seven I drive into town for a paper and some groceries.

The forecast had promised a wet and
wind night, and even though the wind had died down by dawn, as soon as I
drive off I couldn’t help but notice the leaves and small branches
littering the country lane that delivers me into Llandampness.

There’s one spot where the trail travels
many hundreds of yards through an avenue of traditional British trees ―
sycamores, beech, oaks, ash, hazel ― and the sight of this length of
road in my headlights was astonishing.

The road was a carpet of leaves,
made more spectacular because being an early Saturday morning, just one
or two vehicles had previously passed so virtually no leaves had been
cleared off the road by the disturbed air flow.

Just after lunch, the weather now
beautifully sunny, I walk up the road to photograph the spot. Traffic
had now cleared the leaves off the road itself, but you can still see where some
remain between the vehicle tracks...

♬
♪♬
When autumn leaves...

...start to fall

Imagine, first thing this morning
the whole road looked like that verge, up there. Oh dear, why did I not
capture a shot in the headlights? Especially as I had a camera in the
car. D’oh!

Because September had been so
settled ― no wind, and no frosts, obviously ― very few leaves had been
dislodged. But last night’s wind ― it wasn’t a storm ― had blown off
the more fragile leaves with a bit of a vengeance.

I noted during the past week that
the media has been awash with glorious scenes of autumn colours coming
into their own ― with promises of a spectacular October.

But what folk don’t quite realise, and
why we will never compare with places like New England, say, is that we
are subject to depressions and winds sweeping in off the Atlantic ― and
what do they do? Dislodge all the colourful leaves, that’s what.

While on the subject of autumn and its fruitfulness, a few letters from The
Times:

Core values

Sir, My late father, who loved
his Russets and Cox’s English Pippins, considered French Golden
Delicious to be a contravention of the Trades Descriptions Act.
GILLIAN WILSON, Winchester

Apples appeal

Sir, Several years ago, on finding
no sign of the quintessentially British cooking apple, The Bramley, on
the shelves of a national supermarket, I asked why. “We’re changing
countries” came the enigmatic reply.
PETER SERGEANT, Hathern, Leics

Sir, Curiously, French Golden Delicious ― or simply “les Golden” as they
are known there ― do taste more delicious when you buy them in France.
JULIAN PEACH, London W14

Sir, My late father always called them Golden Suspicious.
BEVERLEY JUGGINS, Eckington, Worcs

Well, apropos French Golden Delicious tasting more delicious in France,
that observation is true of every fruit and veg under the sun. The
closer and sooner you buy it to the point of production and harvesting, the tastier it
will be.

That is why the
blackberries I pick deep in the heart of the Towy Valley taste so juicy
and exceedingly moreish.

Friday, October 3rd

Upbeat

A THREAD of letters beckoned,
compliments of The Times:

Don’t think twice

Sir, Columnist Ben Macintyre
proposes that the Nobel prize for literature should be awarded to Bob
Dylan. When the Minnesota minstrel was asked what his songs were all
about, he replied: “They’re all about three minutes.”
DR JOHN DOHERTY, Stratford-upon-Avon, Warwicks

Best not ask

Sir, Dr John Doherty recalls the
interview in which Bob Dylan responded to the question asking what his
songs were about by saying that they were all about three minutes.
Rather than being an admission that his songs did not mean much, this
was his way of pointing out the inanity of the question.
In fact Dylan never interpreted his own songs. To him
it would have been the same as a comedian explaining why his jokes were
funny.
JAN ZAJAC, West Milton, Dorset

Don’t think twice

Sir, Jan Zajac reminds us of Bob
Dylan’s wit. At a press conference at London’s South Bank to announce
the film Hearts Of Fire (1987), an earnest journalist inquired
whether Dylan might be bored by filming on location.
Dylan looked down on the journalist, and after brief
consideration, mumbled: “I don’t know, will you be there?”
JOHN MILLAR, Perceton, Ayrshire

Sir, I am reminded of the great US singer-songwriter, Don McLean.
When questioned about his 1971 hit, “just what does
American Pie mean?”, McLean replied: “It means I never have to work
again.” Fortunately for many of us, he continued to do so.
GRAHAM TRITT, Ware, Herts

Virgin on the ridiculous?

Back on September 22nd, I featured
this exam howler:

Q: What happens to your body as you age?
A: When you get old, so do your bowels and you get intercontinental.

And I added the following...

Branson in a pickle

That Q&A set me
thinking: Richard Branson recently reiterated his plan to fly with his
children, God rest their soul, on the inaugural flight of his
long-planned commercial space operation, Virgin Galactic, and all that
despite the relatively untested nature of the technology and a departure
date which has slipped repeatedly off the launch pad.

If old Rich
doesn’t get his finger out perhaps the spaceship will have to be
rechristened Virgin Galactic Incontinental. Hope there are plenty of
toilets aboard.

Well now, this letter
spotted just after, in The Times:

Counting down

Sir, In Times Diary
(Sept 23) you report Tom Bower’s claims that Virgin Galactic will not go
to space for ten years. I’m not sure what he knows that our wonderful
engineers in Mojave, California, don’t know ― but please watch this
“space” over the next few months.
SIR RICHARD BRANSON, London W2

Also noteworthy, this brief news item from last weekend’s newspapers:

WHAT NEWS?

Sir Richard Branson, the Virgin
boss, has told staff at his head office that they can take holidays
whenever they fancy and for as long as they like, provided their absence
doesn’t affect the company or (he added, more chillingly) their careers.
“We should focus on what people get done, not on how many hours or days
worked,” he said.

Dear God

Excellent quote, incidentally. But
... do you suppose that Richard is, quite naturally, getting a wee bit
nervy and jittery about this journey into the unknown, in as much that
he is subconsciously ‘clearing his desk’.

After all, that business with the
staff and their holidays will go down well on his CV should the
unthinkable happen: “So, Sir Richard,” says Saint Peter, looking up from
his notes and peering over his glasses at our Rich, “and what did you do
back on Earth that should earn you free passage through these Pearly
Gates?”.

Let’s face it, doing your very
best for your fellow human beings, rather than being obsessed with
power, money and the material things of life, will go down well with the
definitive powers that be, whether they be those up in heaven or those deep inside our own heads as
we face up to the inevitable.

I might even drop a “Dear Sir” line
myself to a
newspaper, with just that tease of a thought.

Thursday, October 2nd

A most unusual
and eye-catching half-ripe blackberry spotted deep in the
heart of
Texas
― er, the Towy Valley (note the lethal thorn, top-right)

On Blackberry Hill

BACK on August 21, I mentioned in passing a poll of the outdoor
activities favoured by families, which found that the three most popular
excursions in England all revolve around food.

The favourite activity nominated by
parents was eating a fish supper by the sea, with afternoon tea coming
second and picnicking third.

I included it because “every morning for the last week or so along my
morning walk, I’ve been pigging out on a riotous crop of plump, juicy
blackberries ― it really is a very good year for fruitfulness”.

As a point of interest, what I
particularly enjoy is the blackberry which isn’t quite ready for the
picking, is somewhat reluctant to let go, as if demanding another couple of
days in the oven ― and when popped into the mouth has that deliciously
bitter little twist in its taste.

It makes the next few ripe
blackberries downed doubly delicious. It is, as Inspector Clouseau would
doubtless say, the sweet and sour ploy to fool the taste buds.

Anyway, since August I’ve been
picking non-stop along my walks. Friends and family who haven’t
been able to get out and about to collect their own have been given loads ― and they
in turn, fair play, have been baking blackberry tarts for me. Yum, yum.

Apparently the warm weather of
September has been ideal for the growth of the brambles, which then produce
the fruit with great gusto and enthusiasm.

Oh, and I note on today’s weather
forecast that the glorious and welcome fine spell is due to finally
break come the weekend.

As a matter of interest, this
article appeared just the other day in The Daily Telegraph:

Q: I will soon be at the
end of my supply of blackberries, courtesy of a wild bush at the bottom
of my garden. I have always cut off the stems that do not bear fruit ―
assuming they might be suckers and take strength away from the
fruit-bearing stems.
Later on, I cut back the stems that have fruited. I
recently read that I am doing this completely the wrong way around!
Is there a right way? Jean Grasby, via email

A: I have also been
feasting off the bramble bounty provided by the hedges of my allotment ―
I agree, it is a lovely late-summer treat. Maybe it is coincidence, but
the best blackberries are produced in this rather wild hedge where a
large patch of comfrey has established itself and is expanding annually.

Pruning out the shoots that have
borne fruit is the right thing to do, since they won’t fruit again and
will eventually die back. The long, invasive shoots produced each year
will develop roots and subsequently new shoots from their tips where
they make contact with the ground. This is how brambles become so
invasive.

In my old garden, I used to train
most of these potential invaders to grow along the hedges from which
they sprang, eventually snipping off their tips. They then produced
fruit the following year. Admittedly it was easy: the rough field hedges
were rarely cut, so training the brambles on to them to produce as much
fruit as possible was a process barely interrupted over the years.

You could do something similar,
just snipping the ends off new shoots and training them horizontally, so
that they don’t take root.

There was one comment online...

Astrantia: You’re better off
with a cultivated, and therefore thornless, blackberry. We have a Loch
Ness, which is easy to deal with. Tie in the new ‘canes’ onto wires in
one direction, with the fruiting ‘canes’ in the opposite direction.
When it stops fruiting, cut those canes to ground level
and await the next lot of canes which will occupy the newly vacated
wires. Easy.

Apropos that photo on today’s welcome mat of the beautiful half-and-half
blackberry, only when I loaded it onto the computer did I notice on its
exceptionally shiny surface my
reflection holding the camera above the bush in order to photograph the
berry in situ, so to speak.

Only made possible because of the swivel
view screens that modern cameras have...

A selfie with a difference

Well, if this weekend is the end of
the fine weather and the blackberry harvest, the above selfie is as good
a way as any to wave goodbye and say thanks a bunch to autumn’s
exceedingly abundant fruitfulness.

---this morning I greet October with a collection
of marvellous sounds to wake up to.

To start at the very beginning: a
few moons back,
listening to Alex Lester on his extra-early-morning wireless show on BBC Radio 2,
he mentioned that, back in the
heyday of the cassette player, one of his pals, a bit of an
electronic wizard, had, compliments of a timer switch, wired up
his bedside cassette player as an alarm clock.

When the machine switched on at
the pre-set time, a tape would start to play the sound of applause ―
softly and gently at first, but the volume would gradually get louder
and louder ... and this would act as an alarm clock.

How marvellous, I remember
thinking, I must play around with that novelty idea.

Now my default bedtime routine is straightforward. I go to bed around
10 o’clock. I turn the bedside radio on. If there is nothing of particular
interest I’ll switch off, then flick the alarm on, turn the light off,
lay my head on the pillow ― and in no time at all I’m off, somewhere
over the rainbow.

The only problem is, I can never
remember my dreams so I have no idea where precisely I’ve been
overnight.

Anyway, the next thing I know, I
hear that little click the alarm makes before it actually goes off
proper. I reach out and switch it off ... next I turn the light on, and then
the radio.

Depending on the time of year, it
will be somewhere between 4 o’clock and 5. In the summer I need six
hours sleep, in the winter seven, sometimes eight. (As I may have
mentioned before, my mother was dazzled, amused, charmed and ― whisper
it, seduced ― by a lark rather than an owl, hence my somewhat off-beat
sleeping patterns.)

Once awake I will listen to the
radio for a few minutes ― usually the aforementioned Alex Lester ― then
arise and hopefully, fingers-crossed, shine.

As I grow older I will occasionally
awake in the middle of the night and go for a pee. Curiously, I often
have real problems then going back to sleep. I will listen to the radio.
Sometimes I’ll just get up.

Whatever, I’ve been doodling with the notion of what sounds I would ideally wish
to wake up to if I had the need.

Different agendas, different
sounds, obviously.

So here we go ― and take it from
me, it is worth listening to this selection, for I found online some great
sounds that will generate plenty of smiles.

Now that sound would wake you up
good and proper ― and get you out of bed. Even though the clip lasts just 21
seconds, it could effortlessly be repeated over and over in a loop to draw it out
to make a proper alarm clock call.

I enjoyed the two online comments
“Nice” and “Am I the only one who thinks this is hilarious?” No, I also think
that it is wonderfully amusing.

As are my next two choices, the
obvious wake-up sounds of farmyard cockerels crowing:

Next, my perfect sound to wake up to: steam trains
climbing the Lickey incline, just south of Birmingham, the steepest
sustained main-line railway incline in Britain.

What is so wonderful about this
first clip is that, at the beginning, the sounds of the train and its
whistle are quite distant, but as it approaches the camera at the top of
the incline the Puffing Billy (to the power of 2) gets louder and louder and louder ― and
all rounded off with a get up you sleepy head blast of the whistles.

I am totally seduced by those two
clips. I don’t know what it is about steam trains that reach
in and touch a man’s soul ― even those folk who don’t
actually remember the steam trains in service react with wonder and awe.

I can only think that it’s the
extraordinary power and rhythm of a steam train on full bore ― amazing
and totally magical, even just
experiencing it on film.

♬
♪ ♫

Anyway, I can’t really complete my roll call of wake-up sounds without
some proper music, so what better to greet the day than the stirring theme
music from 2001: A Space Odyssey, Richard Strauss’ Thus Spoke
Zarathustra.

I fondly remember this as the music
the BBC used to introduce coverage of the Apollo space missions to the moon.

And what a sound to wake up to:
Opening music to 2001: A Space Odyssey
♫♥♫♥♫♥♫
And finally, there I am, awake, and
I’ve got eight minutes to spare to gather my thoughts (and things), before
I begin my stroll through the day ― so what better than Sunchyme
(what clever word play), the original version that is, lasting an exceedingly
wonderful 8.26. Just right to greet the day.

This music transports me back to my
African roots. I can imagine one of my mega-mucho-great-grandfather ancestors
strolling
barefoot along a west African beach, in the company of a handsome and
sexy female ... magic...